


Cypress

by Kitachi (Waterfoo)



Series: In Motion [1]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Grief/Mourning, vague writing is vague
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waterfoo/pseuds/Kitachi
Summary: It's right out of a drama, one man thinks. Two estranged friends meet in the dead of night. One begs another to help him. A deal is struck.





	Cypress

**Author's Note:**

> I published a story along these lines a long-ass time ago on ff . net, got 30k in (though only 12k published) and had to bail because of life. Fast forward a handful of years and here we are, the start of a new series. The entire concept has morphed into something much less ambitious, but much more meaningful to me. Everything will be posted here and my ff account, and there will be no update schedule. To anyone who is still here after all that; welcome! I hope you enjoy.

In the dark, two old friends with too much history between them sit and watch the steam rise from their tea. A tap drips into a sink filled with unwashed dishes, and a clock ticks away on the wall. Soft white from fluorescent tubes illuminates the open kitchen and spills into the living room and dining area. The shadows under both men's eyes have little to do with scattered light.

 

It's right out of a drama, one man thinks. Two estranged friends meet in the dead of night. One begs another to help him. A deal is struck. The last part hasn't happened yet, they're still caught in the quiet that follows a revelation, but Kurosaki Isshin will fix that. He pushes forward, hands wrapping around the slowly cooling mug of his wife's favourite fruit and spice blend. He's had enough of oppressive silences for a lifetime these past two weeks, doesn't care if this drama – this _tragedy,_ he thinks, numbly – goes off script. “So, will you do it?” It comes out unsteady.

 

“Isshin,” Urahara starts, half warning and half… _Half what, exactly? Half apolog_ _y_ _?_

 

“What?” Isshin bites out, suddenly very done with indulging in Urahara's mind games. No more talking around the issue, no more layers upon layers of carefully hidden motives. Isshin is weary to his core. Not two yards away, his children – _her_ _children,_ lay in a sleep just shy of fitful, grasping for a warmth he knows they won't ever feel again. His wife is dead and still Urahara insists on fucking around.

 

Urahara examines him a beat longer than could be considered polite. If there is more to this than the usual calculation, Isshin can't read it – even indoors, he never takes the damned hat off. Urahara holds himself with preternatural stillness as he asks; “Are you sure?”

 

Before he can stop himself, Isshin's gaze flits to the living room. He had positioned himself in order to keep an eye on them, and so from his vantage point he can see everything. Yuzu and Karin are curled around their brother on the couch like commas, each tucked snugly under an arm. There's a faint crease in Ichigo's brow, and his head lists off to one side. Ichigo is clearly responsible for their unusual position, having drawn his sisters close as if to protect them from unseen enemies. It's the first time they've slept without fuss since that night. Isshin feels a little short of breath thinking of the years and years he will have with them now, all to himself.

 

Slowly, Isshin nods, not taking his eyes off his children.

 

He hears Urahara exhale, and then a moment later the sound of a hand fan flipping open. “I can give you ten. Maybe twelve, if we stretch it.” And now, Isshin does look, tears his eyes from his kids to examine his companion. Urahara fans himself with the deceptive casualty of a seasoned businessman, face obscured by the hat and fan, slouched in a way that suggests comfort but not familiarity.

 

“Kurosaki?”

 

_Ah._ This is how it is to be, Isshin has been reduced to a customer, a client, with all the implied barriers in between.

 

_Let me grieve,_ he nearly growls, jaw locked tight with the effort of restraining himself. Instead, he stands, pushes the chair back slowly so as not to disturb the kids, and shakes his head mutely.

 

Urahara rises just as quietly. “I see. We will talk details later then, my friend. It's getting late so I'd best be on my way.”

 

Isshin spares a thought for the tea, Masaki's tea, which sits untouched, still warm but no longer steaming. There's a big tin in the first ceiling cupboard to the right of a scorch mark on the wall, four fifths of it full with a loose-leaf blend of dried summer fruits and smokey spices. Isshin has made each of his children a mug to take at night for the past two weeks.

 

Urahara must catch the lingering glance, because between one blink and the next he is downing the tea like it holds the answers to the universe. And Isshin, Isshin wants to laugh, actually has to suppress a huff of laughter bubbling up in his chest against his will. Of course it would be the tea that gives them both the push; Masaki is probably watching over them even now and shaking her head at how mired in fear and mistrust they've both become. Isshin squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment and thinks, _thank you, Masaki,_ because for all that Urahara the businessman keeps his distance, _Kisuke_ is someone Isshin can trust with his children.

 

Isshin opens his eyes and lets his shoulders sag the tiniest bit more, releasing some of the built up tension. “Coming to the funeral?”

 

Urahara dips his head in a shallow bow, his hand holding the hat in place. “If you will have me.”

 


End file.
